Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Real Friends

  • I talk with them using my 'real' voice and not that one I use for answering the phone and talking to strangers.
  • They talk to me the same way.
  • We laugh about our other voices.
  • Laughed with them and didn't worry what I looked like while I was laughing.
  • Let the them see see me looking like hell, when I had a good reason for looking like hell.
  • Let them see me looking like hell, even when I didn't have a good reason.
  • They encouraged me, without hurting my feelings or esteem, not to look like hell unless it was for a good reason.
  • If it was for a good reason, they didn't care what I looked like, they only cared what I was feeling.
  • Exposed my body, my mind and my soul, without thinking about being exposed.
  • Spent time with them - with no music, TV, or noise needed to mask the silence.
  • Cried my eyes out when I was sad.
  • Cursed a rainbow-ed streak when I was mad.
  • They know my family and have met the skeletons.
  • They and my family (and the skeletons) are now family too.
  • I might not hear from them for weeks but, when I do, we are the same friends we've always been and will always be.
  • When we are out together and look at someone, then look at each other, we read each other's minds.
  • Doing that sometimes gets us in trouble.
  • We are used to getting into a little trouble together.
  • Walked away in the middle of their visit when the urge to write hit me.
  • Let them make my home their home.
  • Fell asleep next to them (male or female) in bed after we spent hours talking, or because it was way too late/dark/cold for them to go home, or because they were too tired/drunk/cried out/silly to drive home.
  • If one of us is sick, the other one is going to be there or call or do what we have to do to show we care.
  • I let them use my computer and not worry about them seeing my browser history.
  • I've seen their browser history and we're still friends.
  • Pulled down my pants, lifted my bra or took off my shoe to ask if they knew what the hell that was about.
  • Did a Google Search with them when they had no idea what the hell that was.
  • Laughed like a maniac with them when we finally did figure out what the hell that was.
  • Didn't drop them as a friend for life when they told me why I should never, ever, wear that one pink shade of lipstick again.
  • Didn't even get too mad at them when they told another good friend why they suggested I never wear that damn pink lipstick again.
  • Let them have a copy of that one really embarrassing photo from my childhood - not the embarrassing-but-cute-in-retrospect photo, but the photo that one hundred and ten years from now will still be embarrassing.
  • Being able to act like I am a silly, giggly, ten-year old girl again with them one minute, then being as grown as needed the next.
  • I can call them at anytime - the middle of a busy day, in the dead of night - and they are going to answer my call.
  • They might end up cussing me out if my call wasn't urgent, exciting, raunchy or entertaining, and I interrupted something that was, but they won't hate me. Much. It depends.
  • I'm okay with them cussing me out because of those calls. At some point, I'm going to cuss them out for the same reason.
  • They are still going to answer my future calls. I'm still going to answer theirs.
  • We know that not all family is blood-related.
  • Told them about my fantasies, dreams and goals - even the ones I won't tell anyone else. Ever.
  • They've seen me nappy, happy, crappy, cute, bitchy, petty, feral, contemplating naughtiness, regretting wrongs, and being wholly, totally, truthfully, no-holds-barred me.
  • They know me and still love me.
"Friends come in every shape and color and, most importantly, in every kind of crazy." (me)


From Pinterest...

This is my kind of friend!

Friendship for real

The Writer's Kitchen

(It's early, I'm unsettled. I have to write something, anything. Good morning, life.)
As a writer, I feel like something of a chef. And I like that idea.
My stories come from recipes of thoughts.
My thoughts come from my past, present and future ingredients of my experiences.
I test them, taste them, add a little seasoning, and taste them again.
I've thrown out entire meals that took months to prepare.
I will not serve up what did not become precisely what I meant it to be.
There are pieces of recipes jotted on the backs of receipts and books, even in eyeliner on the gum wrappers.
Aperitifs to set the mood and stir the appetite. They are either the easiest or most difficult to create.
Perhaps and appetizer to prepare the palate for what's to come.
And then, the main dish. Spicy or smooth; forbidden, maybe even wild and gamey.
Everything else has mattered, but here is where I've put in what had to be ripped out of me.
Then dessert. Like the best cigarette you've ever had after the best release of the most intense passion.
And some digestif. A reward for joining me at my table. Something to let the guest sigh with contentment.
The readers - my guests, they will be back for more. If I have earned it, there will be a clamor for seats at my future tables.
When one story is finished, its stains and scraps still with the reader, I go and prepare to write again.
I will browse the aisles of my memories to search out new seasonings to pair with the staples stashed at the ready: desire, perseverance, suffering and madness.
Writing feeds hungry souls and satisfies the cravings of the mind.
What I do matters.
What I do is real.